


Tilting at Windmills

by Akamaimom



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Romance, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 05:57:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4613772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akamaimom/pseuds/Akamaimom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack's struggling to deal with the events of Euronda and Alar's people. Angry, depressed, and alone, he needs Sam's help to find his way home, literally, and figuratively. Angsty, UST, with just the barest hint of gutter (and a little smidgen of Cervantes thrown in--just for fun). Written for a tumblr MOS first line challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tilting at Windmills

MOS Challenge

It was finally there, right in front of him. . .

 

Tilting at Windmills

 

A basic knowledge of Don Quijote would be useful for this one. Should you need this, I’ve helpfully provided a quick synopsis at the end of the story. I know I’ve written about “The Other Side” and the repercussions of it before, but the episode seemed to fit nicely into the prompt given by the challenge for which this was written. So, here you go.

This is also more like an older “Teen” – not quite “Mature”, but guttery all the same.  
Be ye therefore warned.

 

It was finally there, right in front of him. 

And he'd thrown it away.

Sure, it'd been the right thing to do, but it had still annoyed the hell out of him. All that technology, all that firepower, all the medical possibilities - and he'd had to grow a freaking conscience and reject it.

Toss out the baby with the bathwater. The racist, genetically-superior, wannabe-Nazi bathwater, sure. But still.

Damn.

O'Neill scooted forward on his stool, fingering the glass that sat empty on the bar in front of him. He'd been there for - he twisted his wrist to peer at his watch - three hours. Three hours and many, many empty glasses, and he still wasn't even buzzed. Not even a wobble when what he wanted was to be good and sloshed. 

The bar was loud, and smelled of stale liquor and even more stale people. Jack had been there long enough for the clientele to have turned over at least once, and he watched now as another wave flowed through the place. Pool tables, beer, short skirts and high heels. Lots of cleavage. Big belt buckles, big muscles. As drinking establishments went, Frankie's wasn't the best, but it wasn't the worst, either. And in his current mood, pissed beyond belief and needing to forget, the shadowy dive seemed like a veritable Valhalla. 

The fact that he could pull that reference out of his butt made him blatantly aware that he needed another drink. Picking up the most recently emptied glass, he twiddled it in his fingers, glaring down the counter at where the perky little bartender was chatting up another patron. With a sideways glance, Jack pegged him - Marines, probably. Fresh haircut, new jeans. Just below the hem of the guy's sleeve, he could see a shiny new tattoo. Poor bastard didn't know what was out there. One minute he's chatting up pretty, buxom bartenders, and the next, he'd be closing the 'Gate on an entire civilization, dooming them to destruction, losing what could possibly be the key to saving Earth in the process. Shaking his head, O'Neill waited until she'd handed the Marine a beer before lifting his own depleted glass towards her in an unspoken signal.

It was Daniel's fault. Daniel and his idealistic, moralistic bleeding heart. And Carter, too. She'd started out on his side and then turned, as the angry truths on Euronda had shimmied their way to the surface. And, like the poison Alar's people been systematically pumping into the atmosphere, the facts they'd learned about the Eurondans had polluted any possibility of Jack's being able to live up to the agreements he'd made with them. 

Since when had he become so damned Quixotic? Tilting at galactic windmills. 

He glared at the glass in his hand, considering. When had he started fighting the moral fight alongside the practical one? Probably about the same time Carter barged into the story, with her abilities to make men want to be different - better - than they were. Sam Carter - part Dulcinea, part Xena, Warrior Princess. 

That image actually made him smile, until he remembered. Remembered her face just a few hours before, standing on the ramp as the iris had shut behind him. As she'd realized what he'd done, how many he'd just sacrificed, realized who he actually was. Those eyes - wounded, accusing, horrified - Jack would see their haunted azure for the rest of his days. 

Tilting his glass, he tried to nurse another drop out, but the teat was, indeed, dry. It hadn't been a particularly good Scotch, but it'd been better than nothing. Better than his memories. Because she was everywhere in them lately, running after him in hallways, shooting replicators aboard Asgard ships, teasing him about fishing, following Thor up the ramp. 

And then there had been that week on -234, after they'd escaped the Beliskner and before the SGC had fixed the 'Gate. A week of just - being. Living. Relaxing in the forests that seemed to be largely ubiquitous in the galaxy. They'd found a campsite a klick or so from the 'Gate, a little way from a freshwater pool, and surrounded by the kind of green fecundity that tended to make one forget about rank and evil and responsibility. Feeling free from disaster for the first time in ages, he'd let his guard down. 

So had she.

Team-like cooperation had morphed into friendly banter, which had become something - more. More intimate, more real, more dangerous. They'd stood precariously on the edge of the kind of relationship that tended to be frowned upon by higher-ups. Teal'c had been omnipresent, hovering like some sort of Jaffa chaperone, but it had been so easy to let rank and file slide in and around the teasing, the laughter, and the kind of authentic conversation that happened when one's life wasn't at stake. 

On the next to the last day of their exile, Teal'c had been deep into kel'norim when Carter had announced that it was time to check the 'Gate. Grabbing her tools, she'd heading into the woods. It had been warm, so Jack had pulled off his overshirt and fiddled with the fishing rig he'd been working on. He'd jury-rigged a pole out of a branch he'd whittled smooth, and attached some line he always carried in his pack along with a small package of hooks. He'd seen fish in the pool they'd been drawing water from, but had yet to catch one. Protein hound that he was, he'd long-since tired of the energy bars Carter always seemed to stash in her gear, skeptical of the berries and roots that Teal'c kept bringing around, and ready for something - anything - else. Walking towards the pool, he'd found an odd little rock on the path, and had been turning it this way and that, trying to figure out how to attach it to the line as a weight, when he'd approached the pond's rocky edge.

And there'd she'd been. Poised like a nymph rising from the shadowed pool, she'd paused in her - Swimming? Bathing? - it didn't matter. At that moment, she was simply quietude, and peace, and Sam. Hip-deep in the still water, her fingertips trailed lightly on the mirrored surface, causing mesmerizing little wavelets to meander their way to shore. He'd watched, burning inside, as a single droplet of water escaped the curls at her nape and made its way slowly down the long, strong column of her spine to rejoin the pool as it lapped at the divot in the small of her back.

She wasn't a petite woman - he'd always appreciated the fact that she kept up with him, stride for stride. He'd known that she was strong, had seen her fight, and survive, and carry, just as much and just as hard as he had. Not having to make allowances for her gender had let Jack successful in telling himself that she was no different than he was. An Airman, a warrior, one of the team.

But now. Here. Her. 

Regardless of how pale and smooth her body was, she wasn't anything close to soft. As her hands tickled at the water, the muscles on her back and arms rippled and flexed, playing in a lithe dance beneath the silky surface of her skin. Nor was she unmarked - there were the bruises, and abrasions - the scars of her trade bandied about here and there on her, and an incongruous freckle sat directly below her left shoulder blade. With a bit of hysteria exploding within him, Jack wondered what it would taste like, and whether she would mind if he joined her in the water to find out.

He should have left immediately, should have made his way back up the ersatz beach, back through the forest and into the camp. Should have purged the sight from memory with work, or with training, or God help him - with prayer. But he'd stayed. Stupidly. Madly. Like the damned fool that he'd always known he was, drinking in the sight of her, reveling in something so beautiful that he had been rendered powerless. So perfect that something inside him had broken. Damn, damn, damn. 

Swallowing a curse, he turned to leave, but the heel of his boot kicked free a bank of pebbles which cascaded down the embankment to sink into the clear pool. Working to stay upright on the shifting ground beneath him, with only his empty hand for balance, he nearly slid into the water before he regained his footing. When he looked up, his eyes met hers over the smooth curve of her shoulder, a serene smile curving the lush fullness of her mouth. No rush to cover herself, no accusations, no attempts at escape. She'd merely watched him look at her with an honest, open confidence that been the single most alluring thing he'd ever seen. A warrior Dulcinea, minus nothing but her sword.

Between them, the tiny wavelets licked at the shoreline, nearly inaudible. A light wind overhead shushed through the treetops, but the rest of the forest lay still, nearly silent - unbroken by the momentousness of what had happened, and how it had changed him. With a herculean effort, he broke away from the mesmerizing effect of her gaze, stepping sideways up the embankment to climb in a near-run up towards the path. In his haste, he'd dropped the pebble, but didn't realize it until he'd arrived back in camp. 

It had been dark before she'd returned. Carter had pretended that nothing had happened, and, intensely grateful, Jack had followed suit. The banter, the teasing, the talking stopped, but the next morning, when he'd been changing from one t-shirt to another, he'd glanced over to see her watching him with a bare need that had made parts of him ache. 

He'd never been more happy to see a wormhole established in his life.

Right now, however, he'd 'Gate back to -234 in a heartbeat, if only to be there alone and not have to see those eyes staring through him, knowing him, recognizing. Jack sighed, running his fingertip along the edge of his round glass. 

The bartender was ignoring him. She'd turned, confabbing with a guy who'd been standing near the office door all evening. The only guy in the entire place wearing a suit, he still managed to look like he belonged there amongst the odd conglomeration of military types, college students, ranchers, and blue collar hotshots. Whatever she was saying seemed to be very important. Lots of gesturing and looks backward. Jack had the sinking suspicion that he wouldn't be getting his drink any time soon.

He was hot. Too many people, too much commotion in the confined space. Looking down at his chest, he realized that he was still wearing his leather bomber. Well, no wonder he was hot. Straightening, he made a half-hearted attempt to shrug out of the jacket, but it seemed to be resistant. He twisted around and tugged at one sleeve, but the thing had anchored itself somehow to his arm. Weird.

"Jack."

Not the bartender. Looking up, O'Neill watched as Suit Guy approached. He reached out to brace himself against the bar with one hand while unbuttoning his suit jacket with the other. He was handsome, in a pretty guy kind of way. Chiseled. Or something.

O'Neill took a stab at witty. Lifting a finger, he pressed it vertically against his lips. "Shh. Don't tell anybody." Didn't work.

Suit Guy smiled anyway. "Listen, friend. Becky over there tells me that you've been here for a while. Had a few."

"I have, indeed." The shot glasses and random empty beer bottles strewn around the bar in front of him testified to that fact. Jack decided he couldn't deny it. He raised the glass he still held, wiggling it. "And this one is empty, now, too. Could you do something about it?"

"Sure. I'll take that." Suit Guy reached out and neatly plucked the shot glass from O'Neill's hand. "I think you're done, Jack. It's probably time for you to be heading home."

Ah, crap. Jack flexed his now empty hand, leaning forwards over the counter in front of him. "Let me settle up."

Becky, standing just behind Suit Guy, reached around her boss and placed a piece of paper onto the bar. Jack snagged it with his index finger and pulled it towards him, throwing her a look that he hoped absolved her of tattling. Squinting down at the total, he sighed, then reached into his back pocket and slid his wallet out, flipping through bills until he found one that would suffice and tossing it amongst the discarded bottles and glasses he was leaving behind. 

"Thank you for a great evening, Becky." Standing, he gave her a sloppy salute and then patted his jacket pocket, trying to find his keys. 

"Uh, Jack?" Suit Guy again, his hand outstretched. "Can't let you drive, friend. You understand, right?"

"Vaguely." Jack stalled, glaring into the mirror behind the neat rows of bottles on the wall opposite him. He stepped to one side experimentally, and then grimaced when his knee wobbled. Heaving a deep breath, he found his keys in the pocket of his bomber, allowing them to dangle from his fingers briefly before dropping them on the counter next to the impressive pile of glassware he was leaving behind.

"You've got a phone? Someone to call?"

Clenching his teeth made it tough to answer, but O'Neill figured his nod would suffice.

"Good."

He'd parked his Superduty in the furthest reaches of the parking lot, as usual. When he'd gone into Frankie's, it'd been twilight, and clouds had slunk along the horizon, looking like sunset-tinged pillows. Now, it was full dark, and drizzling. He made it to his truck just before the rain started in earnest. Entering his code into the Ford's keypad, he waited for the locks to click before swinging the door wide and climbing in. 

The truck was dark, and cold, and quiet. For a few brief minutes, O'Neill simply sat. He wondered briefly if he couldn't hunker down and sleep in it - hell, he'd slept in worse places. A quick glance through the darkness towards the bar told him that Suit Guy had followed him out, though, and was standing on the porch, watching him through the steadily falling rain. 

Fumbling around in his jacket pockets, he came up with his cell phone. With a flick of his thumb, he had it open, purposefully angling it so that the light from the display shone through the window. Suit Guy would get it, right?

He turned the phone back towards himself, then pulled up a contact number and sent a quick text message. Snapping the little device shut, he threw it onto the dash before settling in to wait. 

\----OOOOO----

He must have drifted off, because he was startled awake by a tapping at his window. His hand immediately went to the button to roll down the glass but then he remembered his lack of keys. Sitting upright, he turned, opening the door open enough to see clearly. It had stopped raining, at least. 

"Sir?"

Damn it.

"Carter?" He squinted into the blackness. She was backlit by the lights from the bar, so that her hair became a halo of sorts. "What are you doing here?"

"Daniel called me, Sir."

"He was supposed to come get me."

"He's kind of tied up at the moment." She moved into the space created between the open door and the truck. "So he asked me to help out."

"Oh." Jack frowned at her, then had to look away. "Okay."

"So, what's the problem? Won't start? Battery, maybe? Out of gas?" She hooked a thumb over her shoulder in the direction of her car, which was still running directly behind the Superduty. "I've got my tools in my Volvo, if you need them."

"It's not that, Carter."

"Then - " She paused, peering at him through the night before turning just enough to look at the bar, and at the front entrance where Suit Guy lounged against the doorjamb. Her mouth closed into a little "oh". 

"I just need a ride home, is all."

Without another word, she stepped away from the truck, swinging the door open wide so that he could climb out. Once he'd passed her, she gestured him towards her car and then shut the door of the truck, her fingers pressing the "lock" buttons on the keypad.

She followed him to the Volvo and watched him lower himself in before leaning over the door and saying, "I'm going to get your keys. Be right back."

She was wearing some kind of flippy little skirt and a sweater. The last time he'd seen her in anything like that was when Daniel had died the first time - he closed his eyes to remember the particulars. Something about a guy whose face had reminded him of a Spongebob episode. And water. Somewhere, there had been fire, too. Jack scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms, looking back up just in time to see her walking through the parking lot, purposefully avoiding the puddles. 

"So, the guy over there says your liver isn't going to like you in the morning." Sam climbed into her elegant vehicle, closing her door as she reached over and handed Jack his keys. "He also said that you're a remarkably civil drunk."

O'Neill didn't look at her, preferring to focus all his concentration on shoving his keys into the front pocket of his jacket. 

"So, I assume I'm taking you home?"

Closing his eyes, Jack breathed deeply. Somehow, her silence seemed insistent upon a reply, so he nodded. 

Without another word, she shifted the car into gear and aimed it out of the parking lot.

His house sat dark, and quiet. He always forgot to turn his porch lights on when he left, so he was used to coming back to blackness. His chauffeur, however, seemed to see the darkness as a problem.

"You could use a timer." Always the fixer, their Major Carter. "I put one on my house a while ago. The lights automatically go on at a set time, and so when we're off-world, it's not as obvious that I'm not home."

Jack let himself out of her car, gently swinging the door closed. "I'd probably set the thing wrong, and it would turn on during the day or something."

"It's just a timer." She'd gotten to his porch before he had. "It's not rocket science, Sir."

He snorted. "It never is, with you."

She turned to look at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Jack took great care not to touch her as he passed her on his way to the door. "Never mind, Carter."

"It had to mean something." Her voice felt small to him, quiet. Hurt

His house had been hit by the squall, and the wood decking running around the place shone almost silver in the moonlight. Water still dripped from the trees and bushes, and his front porch had a little standing pool of water just to one side of the door. He stepped around it, digging in his pocket for his keys. Withdrawing the ring, he looked at her over his shoulder. "I'm probably not making much sense, is all. Ignore me."

"You're making perfect sense." She neared, leaning slightly against a spot of his wall that hadn't been soaked with rain.

The door wavered a little, the lock smaller than he'd remembered it. Whether that was the Scotch, the myriad beers, or old age, he couldn't tell. It took him three tries to get the key in, and then it wouldn't turn. Sighing, he let the keys dangle there for a moment before stepping back to try again. 

"Sir, let me."

Easy hands gripped his sides, moving him aside with a gentleness that he wouldn't have expected, and certainly didn't deserve. Blinking, he watched her hands, with their long, fine fingers, perform the simple moves of turning the key and opening the door. She had beautiful hands - they had always fascinated him. Worthwhile and decorative at the same time. He was sure that there was a better was to describe that, but the words eluded him. He tried not to think about how they'd feel on his skin.

Damn. Now he was thinking about how they'd feel on his skin. 

He glanced up to find her standing in the open doorway, watching him. Pointing at the door, his eyes flew wide. "You did it."

"Do you want me to turn the porch light on?"

"Not really." He shook his head. "Not unless you're desperate to."

"It's not my house." As if that were the correct answer. She took a step backwards, leaving a space for him should he choose to enter.

It took him a minute to decide. As he passed her, Jack scowled. "So, where was Daniel?"

"Lecturing at the Academy." Closing the door behind him, Sam flicked the lock shut. "He's got a series that he presents over there about Ancient cultures. He says it keeps his work fresh."

O'Neill made his way to the left, down into the living room. He'd forgotten to close the shades, too, and the moonlight limned the interior of his house in a whitish glow. Stopping on the bottom step, he turned to look at her. "Probably just gives him a chance to show off all the useless crap he knows."

"Maybe." She hadn't followed him into the living room, staying on the landing instead. 

She looked something - different. Feminine. Almost innocent, in the knee-length skirt and (he searched his cranium for what Sara had called them) the cardigan she wore. He tried not to notice. Not to care. But that image rose again, unbidden in his mind. Water and skin and the damned freckle, and that elusive smile that taunted him whenever he shut his eyes. 

"Sir, if you don't mind." She stepped nearer the top stair, tilting a look at him. "Exactly how much did you have to drink tonight?"

"I had Scotch."

Her smile was small, but bright in the darkness of the room. The kind of smile one would use to coax a simple child. "Yes, but how much Scotch?"

Jack held out his hands, as if he were a weekend fisherman lying about his catch. "All of it."

"Okay." There was the tiniest, most fleeting hint of humor in her tone.

"And some beer."

"Beer."

"And a few glasses of Bourbon."

Carter's lips pursed. "Wow."

"And some peanuts."

The corner of her mouth turned up. "Peanuts."

"And I stole some mints on the way out." He reached into his pocket and withdrew one. "Do you want one?"

Her hair moved when she shook her head. "No, but thank you."

He unwrapped a candy, popping it into his mouth. "Your loss." Not really - turned out it was one of those puffy ones that dissolved almost immediately. Minty fluff. He swallowed, then breathed experimentally to feel the slight burn of the residue in his mouth, aware that she still watched him. Aware that he was being obtuse.

"Do you want me to stay here with you?"

Jack looked at her, then, his mouth sinking into a grimace. "I don't need a damned babysitter, Carter."

"No - I know." She took another step downward, stopping again. "I just - "

"Then why would you want to stay with me, unless you thought I was some sort of invalid?"

"I don't think - "

He grunted, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "You're free to go. Now. Whenever."

"Sir - "

"Just go, Carter." 

She let out an exasperated breath, rolling her eyes towards the ceiling. "I just want to help you if you need it. I mean - I'm already here. I know it's been a rough day for you."

"Just for me, huh?"

"For us all."

He lifted a hand to rub at a sudden stiffness in his neck. "Not nearly as rough as it was on the Eurondans."

So, there it was. He threw it out there. Let her do with it what she may. Castigate him, rail at him. Hate him. Spit venom.

She took the final step down into his space, stopping only a few feet away. "Sir, it wasn't your fault."

Anything. Anything but that. Kindness. Understanding. A wary kind of compassion that went beyond what one colleague would extend to another upon majorly screwing up. Her face wore the same expression it had on the ramp, but just now, in the intimate dark of his living room, it read differently. 

Maybe it was the Scotch. 

Maybe it was that he'd interpreted it wrong hours before. Maybe instead of being devastated by him, she'd been devastated for him. That this woman, knowing his past, his capabilities, his proclivities, had known. Had understood that, by ordering the iris closed, he'd been inviting his demons back - the hell-spawn he'd been working so hard to expunge. That he'd reopened wounds in his being that he'd prayed had already been healed.

Because, going through the 'Gate had seemed to offer a freakish sort of salvation, hadn't it? At first, his own life to pay for Charlie's, and then, when it had become apparent that there was more to it, he'd hoped to save the rest of the planet. If he died in the process, well, then, so be it. At least other people could live on with the possibility of happiness.

Tilting at windmills. Damned Quijote and his insane, romantic idealism. 

"Sir, I know you're having a hard time with this. I know you're hurting." 

Ridiculously, he heard Aldonza, the whore of La Mancha, in his head. He'd watched the movie in college, rather than read the behemoth book. She'd been angry at the old man, berating him, singing something about how Quijote showing her the sky, had given her hope, when she'd wanted to cling to her hate. How it had ruined her. 

Blows and abuse and I can take and give back again, tenderness I cannot bear.

For whatever reason, right now, he would prefer that she hate him. Detest him, despise him, rather than feel sorry for him.

"Sir - " Quiet, low, soft. She stepped even closer, so near that he could see how her irises gleamed cerulean even through the moon-lit dark. So close he could smell whatever it was that she used when she wasn't being tactical. A little spice, a little flower. And so hypnotic that he wanted to bury himself in her and breathe her in.

He groaned, turning away, hesitating just a bit as the room wavered. 

"Please let me help you."

"You can help me by leaving."

"I'd like to make sure you're settled before I go."

"Settled?" Too fast, he'd pivoted and nearly stumbled. It took a second to make sure he was going to stay upright. "What're you going to do? Tuck me in?"

"I could. If that's what you needed."

Oh, the thought of that. The sweetness of that. He squeezed his eyes shut before opening them again, glowering. "Damn you."

"Sir - please - "

"Shut up, Carter." He gestured vaguely towards the door. "Just leave."

Her chin rose at that, a veil falling over her features as if she were purposefully concealing something real. Shoulders squaring, she stepped backwards. "Okay. I'll see you tomorrow, then." She pivoted and aimed herself up the few stairs towards the entry, her steps deliberate, quick and precise, pausing only to open the door and then draw it closed behind her.

Sleep. He needed sleep. Looking down, Jack realized he still had his bomber on. He tried to shrug it off, remembering too late that it had been stuck before, hadn't it? Tugging at a sleeve, he succeeded in getting it halfway off before it was caught again, tangled, incomprehensibly in the leather. With a groan, he tried to pull it back up, but failed. Surrendering, he made his way up the steps, heading past the entryway and back towards his bedroom.

His empty bedroom. 

He passed the pegs where he normally hanged his jacket, and wondered again why it was still on him. Carefully, he stepped backwards and tried again. Stuck. How the hell was that even possible?

The front door swung open again, and he looked up to see Carter standing there in the open door. Halfway in, halfway out. As usual.

He growled. "What did I tell you?"

"I got out to my car, got in, and started it up. But Sir, I can't leave you like this." Her quick eyes took in the situation, and she closed the door again and crossed the slight space to join him in the hallway. "I feel responsible."

"You're not." 

She half-shrugged. "Maybe. But I can't stop feeling what I feel, can I?"

Truth. The truest kind. He slid towards her. Close enough to smell her again, and see where the sky - or a tree - had deposited a few drops of water on the fine knit of her sweater. "No. Sometimes that's a problem, isn't it?"

She didn't respond verbally, but the muscles in her jaw undulated. Reaching out, she touched the front of his jacket. "So, let's get you more comfortable." 

O'Neill looked down, to where her fingers were working at the zipper of his jacket. "It's stuck."

"The zipper's just caught on your t-shirt. Hold on - " And those nimble fingers fiddled for a moment, and then he was free. Sam's hands rose to grasp the jacket near the collar, slipping it back and off his shoulders. 

He let her. Allowed her to help him. Let her hands move over him as they removed the leather, easing the coat off his shoulders, his arms, as she reached around him and gathered the garment in one hand. It was just a moment away from him as she swiveled around and hung it on its peg. Then, she came back to stand before him. "Now. What else do you need?"

You. Jack caught himself before he said it. He wasn't sure if he could have formed the words, anyway. Mercy. Salvation. Absolution.

He was leaning towards her before he could help it, crowding her until that she took one - two - steps backwards, her shoulder blades bumping up against the opposite wall. 

Her eyes measured him, their shadows a combination of wary expectation and whatever she'd been feeling on -234, as she'd looked at his bare torso. He wet his lips with his tongue. "What do I need?"

"Sir." Breathless, almost a sigh.

He expected her to reprimand him, to push him away, to do anything other than look up at him, her eyes huge, her lips parted in such a sweet invitation that he couldn't do anything other than accept. And then he was dissolving inside as her hands drifted up to cup his jaw, her thumbs sweeping along his face, her lips pressing, then opening against his own. 

Heat. Heat and pressure and sensation. His body melded with hers, close enough that he could feel her heartbeat against his sternum, the buttons of her cardigan against his belly. Her thighs tensed, released, as she adjusted, reaching up on her toes to get closer. Jack's hands learned the supple muscles he'd been dreaming of, kneading his way down her back, her sides, to rest on the full swell of her hips. 

More. He wanted more. Pushing her harder against the wall, he broke the kiss long enough to nuzzle against the soft underside of her jaw, to kiss his way down her throat and then back up to claim her lips again, to make a deep, thorough exploration of paradise.

She moaned, deep in her throat, her hands in his hair, on his throat, his chest, and he thought he might die before he got enough. Knew that what he'd found would save him someday, could destroy him. She was only a breath away from heaven itself. Gentling, he feathered a kiss on the corner of her lips, smoothing small touches along her high, elegant cheekbone before nipping at her ear.

He raised his head and tucked her beneath his chin, against his broad body. As if he could absorb the wonder of her. 

Her fingers played with the fabric of his t-shirt, smoothing back and forth at a spot just above his heart. Her body trembled, her breathing erratic. 

"You asked what I needed." His words echoed oddly in the wood-framed hallway, whispered as they'd been. "You asked."

"Yes, well, you're also drunk."

His smile dropped to rest in the wild mess of her hair, and he breathed her in again. "So, what's your excuse?"

"I'm stupid." She shifted, looking up at him, then rubbing her cheek along his as she buried her face against his throat again. "That's my excuse."

"Not much of one." 

He obviously hadn't had enough Scotch. Wasn't drunk enough to prevent himself from pulling away, from releasing his hold, leaving her looking tousled, and slighted, and lonely on the other side of the hall. There wasn't enough liquor in the world to keep him from knowing absolutely that the salvation he'd been seeking would also be his destruction. That her brand of exaltation would be an eternity of exquisite torment. Wanting, but not being able to have without imperiling everything else.

"You should go." Physical pain accompanied his words. It cost him that much.

She ran her quick little tongue over her lips, pressing them together, lifted a hand to touch tentatively at the corner of her mouth, as if to seal a memory. All the while, studying him, her gaze intent, calculating. Finally, she nodded, pushing herself away from the wall, making her way back into the entry way, towards the door. 

As her fingers closed around the handle, she paused. Without turning, she steeled her spine. "Sir, I know that you're hurting right now. That you feel guilty. But it wasn't your fault. What you did - what we did - was the right thing to do. I believe that. But I'm so, so sorry that you had to do it. The last thing in the world that I want is for you to be in pain. For what you've been trying to escape to come back. Your demons. Whatever. You don't deserve that. You are one of the most amazing, noble men I know."

"Noble." Even to himself, the word lay bitterly in the dark.

She turned her head just enough to peer at him over her shoulder, and he could see her again in that pool of water, bare and pale. Could see the droplet as it made its sensual way down her spine. If he weren't such an idiot, he'd capture her again, drag her down the hall and find that damned freckle. Truth was, though, that he needed her in other ways, too. Needed her quick mind and thoughtful insight. Needed both the warrior and the angel souls that she carried. Both of which would be lost if he got what he wanted.

Impossible. Impossible to win this. Damned Quixotic ideals.

"Good night, Sir." She breathed once, twice, then clicked the latch downward and pulled herself through the opening, allowing the door to swing closed behind her. He counted to thirty before the sounds and lights of her Volvo told him that she'd gone. 

He wasn't going to make it to bed. His legs suddenly lost their strength and he slid inexorably downward to land in a weary heap on the floor, with only the wall for support. For the first time that night, he felt drunk, felt the loss of control, of autonomy. Knew he'd hit the bottom of the bottle. Recognized that it didn't have anything to do with the liquor. 

He'd had her. Been on the precipice of salvation. Then rejected it.

It was finally there, right in front of him, and he'd thrown it away.

 

(Don Quijote de la Mancha is a book written by Miguel Cervantes, a contemporary of William Shakespeare, although the version of the tale I’m referencing is the musical film that was made in 1972. It’s about an old nobleman (Quijote), who goes off on a quest to rid the world of evil. Whether the quest is real or in his head is questionable – he’s accused of being crazy, and his family largely disowns him. he undertakes ridiculous, and often impossible tasks in his quests - in one instance, for example, he jousts with a windmill, believing it to be a ferocious giant. Aldonza is a barmaid/prostitute that he meets along the way (although in the book, she’s a neighboring farm girl). In his head, though, she’s a maiden in need of rescuing, and he renames her Dulcinea. In the end, she returns to him, saying that his faith in her beauty and innocence made her believe that she could change to be who he saw her as. There’s a LOT more to the story, but that’s what you need to know to make sense of this story.)


End file.
